


Emotional Honesty

by ineffableace



Series: push back the hands (Ineffable Husbands Post-Canon) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, I hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, because I might write more, hand holding, it's the missing scene starting with the bus ride, oh GOD the hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 17:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19468645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableace/pseuds/ineffableace
Summary: Aziraphale snatches the paper and squints. “Are you sure? You don’t think ‘playing with fire’  just implies that it's… an inherent risk, or… involves a certain hot-headed demon?”“That better not be an insult.”or: The Nice and Surprisingly Accurate Guesswork of Crowley and Aziraphale, Idiots Who Are Finally Holding Hands (Properly)





	Emotional Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> By 15 degrees, I mean Celsius.

The first time Crowley and Aziraphale hold hands is on the bus ride back to London.

Well, _properly_ hold hands, that is—Crowley can easily count the other instances. There was the one time in Alexandria, and that nasty little episode in Pompeii, and the fire in 1666, and a close escape or two during the Second World War, but all of those had just been Crowley grabbing Aziraphale’s hand so he could save his ass. There’d been no deeper meaning to most of them. Even the burning of Rome had been purely out of fear. Aziraphale’s hand had lingered, but that was only because the whole thing was awful, and his favorite oyster restaurant was falling apart before their eyes.

As they step onto the bus, however, Crowley feels a tap at his wrist, and with a shy glance Aziraphale slips his hand into his. Crowley’s mind spins and he tries not to think about it—the bus is moving, they need to sit down or he’ll lose his balance—and slides into a seat, Aziraphale in tow. Crowley glances at their hands and coughs, turning his gaze towards the window, and they fall into awkward silence.

As streetlights pass, he counts the other times. A flash of light—cascading ash—another—a library burns and a foolish angel stands in the midst of it, rocketing out as many scrolls as he can. Some of those scrolls, Crowley realises, probably met their intended fate in the bookshop. 

“I’m sorry about the shop,” he mutters, still gazing out the window. “Might’ve been able to save some of it, if I hadn’t been occupied. You dying, and all.” Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. Crowley doesn’t look at him. But he can’t help but open his stupid mouth again. “I—I really thought you were dead, Aziraphale.”

There’s a moment of silence, filled with nothing but the warmth of their hands. “Oh,” says the angel, “when you were in the bar—“

“I thought someone had killed you for good, or at least nobody’d have the paperwork and you wouldn’t come back before the end—“

“You called me your best friend.”

Slowly, nervously, Crowley turns his head.

Aziraphale is looking at him, in some soft mixture of awe and warmth, a tinge of sadness in his eyes and his mouth slightly open. It takes Crowley’s breath away, and for a moment he really doesn’t breathe; he furrows his brow, recalling the human need for oxygen only when he feels pressure at the back of his throat and turns away, trying to conceal the inhale.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “guess I did.”

“And it’s true?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that.” 

“Then it’s true for me, too.” Crowley can’t resist another glance. Aziraphale is beaming at him now. “If we’re being honest, Crowley, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had—though that’s really because you’re the only one.”

“What an _honour_ ,” he says, but gives Aziraphale a slight smile anyway.

Crowley doesn’t want to be the one to break contact, but when the bus stops in front of his flat Crowley’s hand slips away, back to his side. Aziraphale thanks the bus driver as they step off, and as they watch him drive away Crowley really has the urge to reach for the angel again, but he stops himself. He knows the danger of going too fast.

They walk to the flat in silence. There’s too much to talk about; it’s easier not to say anything at all.

Once inside, Aziraphale presses the elevator button. The screen above one of them glitches through ten numbers in the span of a second before landing on one, and the door slides open a bit faster than normal. Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to go first; he eyes the elevator with a smile then steps in, Crowley following. The demon makes sure to keep the elevator ascending at the normal speed, and at the normal slowing rate as it stops on the thirteenth floor. Neither of them speak until Crowley opens the dark door down the hall.

“Rather sparse,” Aziraphale says. “Not that I expected differently.” He ventures further and catches sight of something green. “Oh! You keep plants!” 

Crowley reaches out to stop him, but the angel is already rushing away. “ _No!_ Aziraphale, don’t—“

“They’re marvellous! You’ve got your own little garden!” He claps his hands together as Crowley looks on in horror. 

“Don’t talk to them,” he growls. “You’ll ruin all my—“

Aziraphale is reaching out to brush the leaves; they seem to almost curl around his fingers. “So full, with hardly a spot—“

“We’re going to a different room now,” the demon hisses. He takes Aziraphale by the shoulders and steers him past the “throne”, ignoring the angel’s excited exclamations, and towards the bedroom. Much like the rest of the flat, the bedroom has barely any furniture, just a bedside table and a wide black bed with its headrest against the far wall. The wall is almost entirely a window, and city lights float outside.

With a snap, Crowley conjures up another bed beside the table, cream-coloured sheets and wooden headrest. “You can sleep if you want,” he says, “or don’t, I don’t care. I know it’s not really your thing.”

The angel takes a seat on the bed. All of it feels so strange, the light colours in the midst of the dark—the warmth in his usually cool flat. 

“We’ll need a plan first,” Aziraphale says, placing his hands on his lap. “I imagine it’s only a matter of days before our—before Heaven and Hell come knocking.”

“Breaking down our door, more like.” Crowley flops down on his black bed, arms spread wide across the sheets. “I don’t know about you, angel, but they’ll be looking to kill me. Permanently.”

“We won’t let them.” Crowley tilts his head to meet Aziraphale‘s steely gaze. “I won’t let them hurt you, Crowley, you know that.”

“There’s not much you can do against all the legions of Hell.”

“I… I know,” he says softly, anger draining. “I know. And there’s not much to be done about the armies of Heaven, either. Once they get off their high war horses, they’ll come after us.”

“What will they do to you?” Crowley’s voice is soft, too.

“Well, I would hope that they—they merely demote me, but it’s far more likely that they’ll—that I will be—“

“They can’t force you to Fall. Only the Almighty can do that.”

“How do you know?”

He doesn’t, really. Neither of them do.

“I would let them do it, Crowley, however painful it would be. I’d—I’d forsake them all entirely if it meant I could save you.”

If he’d been standing, the words would’ve blown Crowley over. As it is, the pain in Aziraphale’s eyes, the honesty, is enough to force Crowley’s head back down onto the sheets. “Better hope She’s not listening,” Crowley grumbles. “And I’d better hope it takes Hell a few more days to get their hands on some enchanted sword or font of holy water.”

“Holy water,” Aziraphale whispers to himself.

“What about it?”

“Never mind—do you still have Agnes’s prophecy?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley reaches into his pocket and pulls out the paper, holding it high above his head. “She says we’re playing with fire, when all is say-ed and done, thou shalt choose thine own faces wisely. So on and so forth.”

“I’ve been thinking about that faces bit,” says the angel, “and about the time I spent today in another human’s body.”

Crowley sits up. “Hold on. Are you suggesting we _switch_?”

“Well, just think about it, Crowley—if they decide to kill you—“

“They will.”

“—then they’re probably going to use holy water, or find some angel willing to smite you.”

“I’ll bet on the holy water. Smiting’s too fast—holy water’s one of the more painful ways to go.”

“And it would have no effect on me.”

“But this doesn’t solve _your_ side of the problem. You could still Fall.”

Aziraphale is silent for a moment.

“If you surviving holy water scares them enough,” he says quietly, “you’ll be saved, at least, rather than both of us dying, and I will simply... have to adjust to Hell.”

“That’s insane.” Crowley leans forward. “I’m not going to let you save me if it means I’ve got to sit around and—and let you suffer in a place like that. We could still run off, you know, like I suggested the other day—“

“But we can’t! We’re fugitives now. The other day we still thought the world was going to end, and that Heaven and Hell would be busy fighting a war. But I assure you they’ll find us within days, wherever we are. And we don’t know for sure that I’ll Fall, anyhow.”

Crowley scowls. “There’s got to be something else we can do.”

“You have Agnes's prophecy," says the angel. "If you can figure out a better plan yourself, then go right ahead.”

Crowley glares down at the paper, as if his demonic eyes themselves might scare the paper into talking. It doesn’t work, of course—he’s still wearing his sunglasses. But in the course of all his staring, one word does make itself apparent.

“Fire,” Crowley whispers to himself. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Fire,” Crowley says again, mouth open as he looks up. “ _Hell_ fire.”

“What—what are you saying?”

“They’re going to use _hellfire_ on you. That must be what Agnes is saying.” The demon deflates a little, then. “They’re going to try to kill you, too.”

Aziraphale snatches the paper and squints. “Are you sure? You don’t think ‘playing with fire’ just implies that it's… an inherent risk, or… involves a certain hot-headed demon?”

“That better not be an insult.”

Aziraphale gives him a cheeky smile, then turns back to the paper and takes a breath. “Well, let’s assume it’s hellfire for me, then. If we switched, you could survive that.”

“I could, sure.”

“So there’s no reason not to do it. Agnes hardly wastes a word, and she’s always right in her predictions—so you’re right about the fire, I’m sure, and I’m right about switching faces.”

Crowley looks like he wants to argue, but moments pass with no interjections. “Fine,” he says, “alright, whatever. I’m going to sleep now. Your emotional honesty has tired me out.”

“Wait!” Crowley turns to lay down, but Aziraphale catches his wrist. “Shouldn’t we switch now, in case they come during the night?”

Crowley looks at their hands, then back up to Aziraphale. “Alright,” he mutters. “Do you remember how?”

“Yes, of course. On a count of three?”

Crowley nods, and in a moment he finds himself on a cream-coloured bed and an _incredibly_ soft mattress. The one he’d miracled with Aziraphale in mind. _Shit._ _Not my most demonic moment._ He lets go of Aziraphale’s—his own—hand and coughs.

The first thing Aziraphale does in Crowley’s body is ask to take off his sunglasses. The demon agrees, a bit confused, and watches Aziraphale place the glasses on the bedside table. “Much better! You should show your eyes more often.” Crowley looks away quickly. “Now, I suppose we ought to practise our impersonations.”

Crowley manages to replicate Aziraphale’s speech patterns a bit faster than the angel does his. Even so, neither finds it difficult. They’ve spent thousands of years together—on and off, anyway. They’ve spent thousands of years memorizing the other’s tiny mannerisms. Both of them realise that, now. Neither of them wants to mention it, until they do.

Watching Aziraphale walk around the room in his body for the third time, his hips even more exaggerated, Crowley claps. “Alright, alright. I think you had it better the last go around. Now you’re just showing off.”

“I’m only reflecting what I’ve observed, Crowley.” He freezes. “Ah. I mean, what a lot of time has made obvious.”

Crowley isn’t sure how to respond. Aziraphale is making the demon’s face turn red—or rather, the angel isn’t accustomed enough to Crowley’s face to stop the blush. “I think we’re ready,” Crowley says quickly, turning away. “I’m going to sleep now, finally.”

“Yes, I think I will as well.” The angel hurries towards the black bed. Crowley lies down in the white one with a snap that turns off the lights and changes his clothes to plain pyjamas. Aziraphale’s clothes end up neatly folded on the bedside table. Crowley lays on top of the sheets, figuring it’ll be too hot beneath them, and listens to Aziraphale rustle the covers.

“Bit funny,” Crowley says when the rustling stops. “I made an angel bed for you, and I’ve ended up in it.”

“Yes,” is all Aziraphale says in the darkness.

“My bed—even in my body, it’s probably a bit cold for you. I made it that way. It’s always around fifteen degrees.”

“Why on Earth would you—“

“Snake. Cold blooded. Hibernate.” He waits for a moment in silence, then snaps his fingers. “There. That should be better.”

“Yes, thank you. And it’s nicely soft, now, too.”

_Shit._

**…**

When Crowley wakes in the morning, Freddie Mercury lingering in his head like a distant memory, he spends one extremely confusing second wondering who he is. He spends another second chiding himself for being stupid, and another to glance over at Aziraphale’s bed. It’s then that he realises there _isn’t_ another bed—that the sheets are grey, and that Aziraphale, curled up in his body and black pyjamas, is mere centimetres away.

Crowley just watches him for a moment. He’s never seen an angel sleep before, much less Aziraphale in a demon’s body. He can tell the angel is in there, but only because he’s radiating a gentle warmth, and there’s the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

It’s uncanny to watch himself from the outside, but being someone else isn’t as strange as he’d imagined. Being Aziraphale. It’s really just… more colourful. Otherwise, he doesn’t feel embarrassed or flustered. Bodies are just vessels—Aziraphale’s soul itself, the way the angel controls it, is what makes a body anything more than skin and bones. For now, Crowley is merely house sitting.

He doesn’t want to wake the angel up, but it’s nearing six, and he doesn’t like the idea of staying vulnerable for longer. So he props himself up on his elbow and leans over the angel, contemplating the best way to do it. In the end, he doesn’t have to; Aziraphale abruptly sits, with Crowley barely falling back in time to avoid a collision.

“I had a dream,” says the angel, solemnly. “A real, human dream. I haven’t had one in centuries.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Crowley grumbles from below.

“You were there, in my bookshop—it was all good as new.” Aziraphale glances around, then down, then to Crowley. “Why are we in the same bed?”

“Dunno.”

“I don’t believe we can perform miracles in our sleep.” Aziraphale squints. “There _were_ two beds, weren’t there? I’m having trouble remembering.”

“Me too. Really strange. Don’t want to think about it.” Crowley turns and gets out of bed, miracling the clothes back on from the table. As he waits for the angel to do the same, he looks out the window at the sky, the street below; a dark dot in his typical parking space catches his eye. “Is that—it must be!” He turns just as the angel stands up, still in black pyjamas. “Aziraphale, my car!”

“You can see it from the thirteenth _—_ ? _"_

“I _know_ it’s mine, because I happened to have a human dream of my own, featuring a whole lot of Queen.”

Excitement surfaces on Aziraphale-as-Crowley’s face. “So do you think my bookshop might be alright, then, too?”

“You’ll just have to pay a visit and find out.” Crowley pauses. “Well, _I’ll_ have to pay a visit, I guess. And tell you about it later, at alternative rendezvous number five.”

“Were there five of them?”

“Yes.” Crowley sighs. “You know, the bench—“

“Right,” he mutters. “Got it.”

“I’ll leave now. You should wait twenty minutes, so it’s less suspicious.”

“Got it,” says the angel again, starting to look a bit forlorn. The sight of it makes something in Crowley’s chest grow tight.

“Check up on the car for me, won’t you, and make sure it isn’t damaged. And when we meet up again, we’ve got to be fully in character, remember.”

“Of course.”

“Then see you.” Crowley leaves the bedroom quickly, before he has any regrets. He hears Aziraphale rushing after him, and Crowley manages to make it through the throne room, but just as he enters the hallway that leads to the front door, Aziraphale catches up and grabs his wrist. He’s done for. He’ll have to face the angel again, face that stupid—that irresistible—emotional honesty.

“Crowley—“

The demon turns around, trying to hide the pain on his face as he waits for Aziraphale’s words.

“If we don’t see each other again—“

The angel can’t seem to finish the sentence.

So slowly, nervously, Crowley taps the back of Aziraphale’s hand. He lets go, and Crowley’s fingers close around his palm, properly.

Crowley takes a deep breath. “We will. And besides... I’ve never failed to save your ass before, have I?”

It’s technically not true—but Aziraphale still gives him that far-too-fond look, because the demon might as well have just confessed his undying loyalty and love. In a way, really, he had.

He’d done it a thousand times already.

“Alright. Let’s get on with it, then,” says the angel, and before Crowley can think about it he’s been led to the door. “See you later, Aziraphale,” says Aziraphale.

“Farewell, I guess, Crowley,” says Crowley.

The door shuts behind him.

 _London. Pompeii. Alexandria. Rome._ He counts the lights in the hall. Now a bus ride home and a dark city flat, beyond the end of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 picks up where the show left off...


End file.
